Evil to Him Who Evil Thinks
by Dark Rabbit
Summary: This was seriously intended to be a fluffy, domestic story, about the established relationship between two super-villains who, logic suggested, could not possibly spend their whole time screwing with people. The further I went with it, the more I discovered that that's exactly what they do. Only behind the doors of the castle, the people they screw with are each other.
1. Pop Tarts

"...And to everyone else as well just on general principles."  
– L. Laufeyson

**_The Fantastic Four_****, and ****_Thor_****, and ****_The Avengers_****, and all situations and characters thereof, belong strictly and solely to Marvel Comics. This is a fan-work, meant for enjoyment only, and not for any material profit.**

Victor strips the bloodstained rubber gloves away as he leaves his laboratory. An unnecessary move, Loki does not know why he bothers. There has been enough and to spare of blood between them both already. That he still does it though, is a small bit of mortal vulnerability that pleases him. This is a mortal with very little that is vulnerable about him.

Loki looks up at him from the comfortable green-plush sofa, that goes so ill with the rest of the décor of the castle. It was purchased, so Victor admits, specifically for him. He would like to think that another bit of vulnerability, but it is not. Victor is generous with all his allies, as long as he has use for them.

"Your experiments..." He murmurs greeting. "How go they, Victor?"

"Satisfactory." Victor hands the gloves to a subordinate, who takes them away. "I need more test subjects." Victor always thinks he needs more test subjects. "And your own machinations, Loki: Do they prove successful?"

"Of course. Balder is trusting, and I am..."

"And you are Loki." Victor finishes the sentence.

Loki sits up. He stretches limbs that are cramped from too long sitting. Life in Latveria has proven pleasant in many ways, but it lacks challenge. There are not enough things to hunt here.. "I hunger, Victor."

Victor sits. On his throne, though Loki pats the sofa beside him so enticingly. "A subordinate could bring you something surely?"

"_You_ bring it. Bring... – What were those flat things with the sugar on them called?"

"The Pop Tarts? That your brother's friends brought from Broxton?" Victor frowns. "Are you sure you want _those_?"

Loki smiles. He wants them. The food on Midgard intrigues him, the more so, the further it diverges from that in Asgard. He craves its strong tastes of salt, and sugar, and fat. The thing called a "Big Mac," which came also from Broxton, was e'en more pleasing than the tarts. So far however, Victor has not been able to procure such for him in Latveria.

"Pop Tarts." He allows an edge to come into his voice. "Bring them, Victor."

The tarts are brought, and by Victor's own hands.

"Strawberry." Loki opens the box. "It was Hot Fudge Sundae flavor I wanted, but these will do for now." He bites into a tart, savoring the, pinkish flavor of the filling, the cloying-sweet taste of the frosting on top. Then he offers it to Victor. "Take a bite?"

Victor bites, notably, right on top of where Loki bit before. He chews. When he speaks again, there is pleasure in his voice. "It tastes of lies." He bites again, then again. Eventually Loki takes out another tart; this one, apparently, belongs to Victor now. "You stamp your imprint upon everything you touch, don't you?" Victor says. "Upon the furniture, upon the food even..."

Loki puts out a hand, stroking the mask that hides his face. "And upon you too, Victor?" He makes his voice caressing.

But Victor pulls away. "Doom remains Doom. Best eat your tarts, Loki. They at least, belong to you only."

Thinks he so? Victor is smart, but he is mortal and limited. He knoweth not the extent of the control of the Trickster.

"Yes, Victor," Loki murmurs gently. And takes another tart.


	2. Sunshine

"Namor will consider our presence here a threat" Victor seems pleased, ridiculously pleased, at the thought. It matters little, in Loki's estimation, what one mortal thinks of another.

"You would destroy him?" He keeps his voice silky, playful, appropriate tone for the discussing of lesser beings. "He who was your ally so recently?"

Victor frowns. "Of course not."

_Of course not,_ Loki thinks. This is a demonstration of power merely, as when Victor wore the Demon's cloak to meet with the Cabal. Petty mortals must have their petty plotting; they must ever intrigue, one against the other. Off to one side and unnoticed, run Laufeyson's plans, which will come to fruition in their own time. In his own way, he will gain what he craves most, power, and freedom from the cursed hand of fate. But that time has not yet come, and for now he is here with Victor.

It is an island, set in the ocean called the Pacific, where Victor has brought him. A warm place, and green. – Greener, e'en than the hills of fair Asgard, or the tangled woods around Victor's castle in Latveria. A breeze, fragrant with ocean salt, rustles trees that look not like any trees Laufeyson has seen in the past, and music sounds softly from the mortal hotel, some distance away.

In truth, it is too hot, for one such as he, who was born amid the ice in Jotunheimr. Loki finds his battle armor wearisome. Then too, after he has shed it, doth he find wearisome the tunic and trousers beneath. He conjures what he has seen the mortal visitors here wearing, a short garment, bright-colored, to cover only the most private of areas, and nothing more.

Victor frowns. "The sun will burn you."

He is _jealous_, Loki thinks, for he cannot remove his own heavy and burdensome garb. The armor he wears is a part of his nature now, and no mere garment, and Victor would as soon give up his very throne, as to forsake the green cloak and tunic that indicate Kingship. He laughs coolly. "You know it will not."

The chair the mortals have placed near the sand for him is comfortable. The striped umbrella overhead is pleasant, but its shade insufficiently cooling. Loki indicates the mortals sitting nearby. "I would have a drink such as theirs, one large, and plentiful with ice and fruit. Get me one."

He watches not, while Victor performs the deed. Death may be involved, or terror. Mayhaps he only goes to the kiosk and orders one like any common mortal. When he returns with the glass, Loki rewards him with a kiss. Then he takes a sip and the coolness is pleasurable on his tongue.

"Poisoned?" He teases with sarcastic words. They are beyond that now, he and Victor.

"Of course not."

Loki laughs. "You would get me drunk then." There is the faintest intake of breath from Victor, scarce perceptible. A mortal would not have heard it, but Loki's ears are sharp. He sits up, cups Victor's chin with one long-fingered hand. "What would you do with Laufeyson drunk, Victor? Would you violate him?"

Blood spurting. Terrorized screams. His own screams, willed... – Or better still, un-willed? The walls spattered, his body spread apart. This mortal will know him. - Can anyone know him? Is there an inner essence at all, to the Trickster?

Victor's laugh creaks. "Asgardians cannot get drunk on our human liquor."

_No, but they can pretend,_ Loki thinks, and he savors the prospect of the night ahead.


	3. Kitty Cat

The cat is his brother's. It sits in the curve of his arm in a tiny, furry ball, and it looks at Doom with green eyes that are more impudent, even, than his own. Gently, with one finger, Loki traces the line of its skull.

"It will drop fleas on the sofa."

"Oh yes." Loki's lips curl upward. "You are mortal and susceptible to such, are you not?"

Doom smiles back. "It will get under the wheels of one of the Doom-bots and die horribly. Best let me dispose of it now."

The shake of the head in response does not surprise him. "Do I disturb your belongings, Victor?"

His _belonging_ has disturbed Doom's. It broke several beakers in the laboratory this morning, while attempting to catch a mouse. Yesterday it got into the herb garden, where it ignored the nightshade and the oleander, and ate the catnip to the ground.

"Pretty cat." Unwilling, Doom puts out a mailed finger and touches it. "Thor's, is it not?"

"Balder brought it. He thought it had been left in Broxton." The cat, arrogant creature, rubs its head against Doom's hand. A rumbling, pleasured sound comes from its throat. Loki laughs. "It likes you."

It will die slowly. "Your brother is banished, and at your hand, Loki. Best discard this reminder, which will only get in the way of your quest for complete transformation."

He will not though, and Doom knows it. – Knows it even before the Sly One's face shutters and he turns away. This is the frustrating thing about Loki, how he pushes away his family and Asgard with one hand, and clings to them with such desperation, with the other. Especially, does he do it with the accursed, blond-haired brother he has gone to such lengths to destroy. One day Doom will tire of him, and it will be this love-hate/hate-love connection he has to Thor, that will make him.

That day is not today, though. Today, Doom puts out his hand and touches the soft creature in Loki's arms again. It is a skinny animal, black-and-white, with round, brilliant-green eyes. It begins purring again, and Doom sees its tiny claws dig and un-dig into the sleeve of Loki's tunic.

"I think I will call it Thor." Loki sits back down on his green plush sofa, and cradles the beast in his arms.

Doom sits beside him. "Call it Loki." He touches the cat again, touches it repeatedly. Stray bits of its fur come loose and cling, static-y, to his armor. "It is a merciless little predator, like you."

"Thor." Loki smiles. "For it reminds me of the mouse I have yet to destroy, and of the nest of other ones, sitting so close to us now, Victor."

_Thor_, Doom thinks, _for it reminds him of one far away, pushed away by his own actions, and yet closer to him than the cat._ Unwilled, his hands clench.

Loki looks down at his fisted hands and smiles. He brushes a finger, its black-painted nail bitten short, against the back of one of them, and Doom lets them both relax. "Mayhaps I should call it Victor. It fancies itself a predator, rains terror and pain upon its victims, and yet it is so small, so fragile withall." He smiles. "Pet my kitten Victor."

"I will pet your kitten _Thor_." Doom makes no effort to do so. "Best not think me a victim, Loki. I am not one of your nest of mice."

"Of course not." Loki leans back against his shoulder with the cat in his arms. He looks up at him with a smile in his green eyes. "Kiss me, Victor."

After a while, Doom does.


	4. Power Cord

"You will take that power cord and you will bind my wrists with it." Teasing voice from behind his right shoulder. No one can sneak up on Doom, but Loki comes closest. He turns, and looks into sparkling green eyes. "Your bed, the big one: How many of those cords will it take to bind me its four posts?"

Doom looks at the electric drill in his hand. He will take it and put a hole in the center of the Trickster's forehead, and then he will finish with what he is doing. "They are _power_ cords. Their purpose is to bring electrical power to my tools. Go back to what you were doing, Trickster."

"Balder ceases to amuse." Loki's voice is dismissive. He touches the cord. "Wherefore dost need power from such as these, Victor, when you have all of my power at your disposal?"

Honeyed words. Lying words. Loki gives nothing to anyone, except at a price. "My tools do what I want them to do, no more."

It is an admission; he realizes it as the words leave his mouth. Loki's green eyes glow. "Really?" One finger traces the line of Doom's jaw, the place where the faceplates come together and his skin is closest to being touched. "What is it that thou wouldst have the Sly One do?"

Soft words. Silken words. Unbidden, pictures come to his mind: Loki's wrists are thin and pale. Bound above his head, their tendons would stand out just a little. The muscles in his arms would flex, as he tried to pull free. His dark hair disordered, his bare chest heaving. _His_ blood splashing the walls... Would there be fear in his eyes finally?

"The adamantium shackles broke, remember?" Doom turns from his drill and faces Loki. "You bound Endrik with your magic."

A soft laugh, a pleased laugh. A serpent could be trusted more than the Trickster. Those eyes of his are green ice with crazy things underneath. And his teeth are a carnivore's, clean white and made for tearing.

Slowly, gently, he disconnects the drill from its power source. He winds the cord and puts the drill away. A wise man treats his tools with care.

Loki is not wise. He treats nothing with care except his own precious schemes. Even his life, he would risk it if he could, if his Asgardian nature allowed him to. But Doom is no tool to be used, and for now at least, he can be wise for both of them.

"Ropes are for tying. _Silken_ ropes, that will not chafe your soft skin." ...Loki's skin that would withstand anything Doom could send against it, that would rest undented under a nuclear explosion, and survive for centuries still as fresh as it is today... He will pretend, Doom thinks. He is good at it; pretending is his nature. And for tonight, Doom will pretend as well.


	5. Cute

**For serialkiller13, who challenged me to write Loki calling Doom "cute".**

Doom is not the fragile, mortal body he carries out of obligation only, but the mind that lives inside. Someday he will develop the means to modify himself directly. He will _improve_ himself, as he has improved Endrik and the other Asgardians. His new form will be efficient and powerful. It will glitter with the same menace he has given his armor. For now though, he is human and imperfect. He must eat, and sleep, and defecate. He must remove the armor that is his brainchild, and sleep naked, a weak, pale little half-formed thing.

Loki pesters for weeks before he allows him to see him like this. He shows Doom his own body, – Flaunts it, even. – in its female and in its male form. He is pleasing, and perfect beyond anything Doom has managed yet, all his menace hidden beneath smooth, ivory-white skin.

"I would see you too, Victor."

"You would squash me like a bug."

He wouldn't. If he were going to, he'd have done it already. After Doom sent his best machines, and still failed to kill Loki's brother, they both know which of them is the more powerful.

"Come, Victor, you think I don't know you sleep naked?" Loki's lips curl upward. The sharp points of his white teeth show. "I have seen you."

Something that is not fear curls in Doom's stomach, at the thought of Loki's gaze touching his sleeping form.

It is still two weeks longer before they are naked together. Doom leaves the armor like leaving himself. It is his best work, his best _ideas_ made manifest in adamantium and steel. He misses it before he leaves the last piece aside. And he walks naked toward the Sly One, whose volatile chaos is wrapped in pure, physical perfection.

Loki lifts Doom's right hand. – His scarred right hand, outstretched when the blast hit, barely made serviceable again after operations he has done his best to forget. – He studies it, lets his green gaze travel slowly along the arm and up to the ruin that is Doom's face.

"So cute."

The Doom-bots are voice-operated. He cannot _kill_ the Trickster, but he certainly can hold him off long enough to regain his armor. But Loki will not want to kill his human toy, will he? No, his ways are ever more subtle.

"Cute?" Doom's voice is as light as Loki's.

"Like an unfledged bird. A child, ripped too-soon from his mother's womb. You want so much to reach perfection, Victor."

"I will reach it."

Loki's fingers travel Doom's jawline. Feather-light touch, then the tracery of his fingers against Doom's throat. "You are mortal."

_For now, Loki. For now, I am mortal_

Soft laugh of the Trickster. "Come, kiss me, my sweet, mortal plaything. Who knoweth what the future will bring. Mayhaps after I have destroyed Asgard and the rest of creation, it will be Victor von Doom who rebuilds, a new creation of his own devising."

"Mayhaps." Loki's lips feel as soft as they look. His smell is ancient manuscripts, and arcane smoke, and danger. His body is pliant in Doom's arms. "And mayhaps you talk too much, Loki of Asgard."


	6. Plaything

He kneels, back bowed, his golden-blond head glowing in the light from the window. "On your terms," he says. "I come on your terms, brother."

Loki's eyes glow a darker green. "You know what they are."

Sharp nod from the Thunderer. "I know, and I accept them. "

"Then let us begin."

Victor's laboratory is full of sharp objects. It is full of _pointy_ objects, things that will catch fire, burn red-hot searing deep under exposed, sensitive skin, to release the blood pent underneath. There are ropes here. - There are chains, the harsh, clanking admantium chains that were made for Loki himself.

The laboratory is _soundproofed_, though none in this benighted realm would dare make comment were a noise heard.

Loki closes the door behind him and bolts it. "Your hammer," he says. "Lay it aside."

"As you wish, Loki..."

"_Master._"

"Master..." The Thunderer's voice, desperation burning in it. "Loki, – Master! – if you knew how I have longed for you."

_And for this, Odin's Son... Have you longed for this as well?_ "Undress," Laufeyson tells him.

Thor's skin glows, like the apples in Idunn's orchard. It moves, muscle under the smooth skin, and Loki takes a moment to savor the sight, before he makes the first cut. "So long have we been apart, but I can still remember every inch of you, brother. Your every word, your every action even, is still second nature to me."

The first time, Thor does not cry out. Nor the second time, nor the third. He does cry though, oh yes, he cries. And he begs, and tears fall from his blue eyes.

Later, a long, long time later, there is a soft rap on the door. Loki sets aside the rag he was using to clean his blades and turns. "You may enter."

Victor's face is a metal cage, a blank, but there is hunger in his eyes. Loki can see it there. "Your brother?"

He smiles, leans back against the table, still bloodstained. "Was satisfactorily portrayed. The blood was a nice touch." Loki looks up, into the brown eyes of his mortal plaything. "Do you make these of all your foes?"

"Of my friends, Loki."

An amusing answer. "Someday you must show me mine."

"That would be assuming that we are friends." Victor puts out his hand, and Loki takes it. The bedroom lies upstairs.


	7. Freedom

"I am Victor von Doom. I wish three things of life, subjugation of Midgard, total humiliation of my foe, Reed Richards, and Loki's beautiful Asgardian ass, underneath mine in my bed tonight." Loki smiles his cat's smile, over the rim of his wineglass. "One at least of those goals, is within your reach, Victor."

"Vulgar, Loki." Doom sips his own wine. He savors the taste of it, aged Tokay from his own vineyards in Southern Latveria. "I am Loki Laufeyson," he says. "I desire nothing more than to destroy my brother Thor, and thus prove to Odin All-Father, that I am the superior son."

"And to be Doom's bitch." Loki pours himself more wine. "Don't forget that."

The Trickster is in antic humor tonight. Doom is in good spirits himself too, – Research upon the Asgardians has proven more productive than he dared hope. Endrik's heart provided the power to keep his Destroyer moving for almost an hour, and his body, now modified, will serve as a potent weapon. – but Loki's mood goes well beyond his. He is constantly moving, constantly talking, constantly laughing.

He leans, now, over Doom's right shoulder (although it would have been easier by far, to reach _around_ him to get to the bottle). His breath brushes the cloth of Doom's hood, his free hand lightly touches his chest.

"These gold things." He has the bottle now. He ignores it for the moment, to focus on Doom's cloak. "What do you call them?"

"They are brooches." Loki's fingers have teased the first one loose from its moorings. Involuntarily, Doom shivers. "As you well know."

"Humorless Victor." Now he is at work again. The second brooch comes loose; the cloak falls away. "_Boring_ Victor. – Are you not happy about our victory?"

Victory must be earned. "You speak as though we had won already." Sly Trickster-fingers have found the catch to his helmet. Doom's face-mask falls free. Loki, briefly, lifts it to cover the playfulness in his own green eyes.

"It is close enough to smell now, Victor. I have the ear of my dear brother Balder, you have ...Shall we say you have all you want, of many, many Asgardians, to play with. – Do you ever use the ears, Victor? Come, you may tell me. – ...You have the vial with my blood in it."

The vial, that Loki was not supposed to know about.

"Would you really prefer a manufactured Laufeyson over the real one?" Loki's black-nailed fingers caress Doom's bare face for a moment, then move lower, to unlatch the shoulder-plates of his armor. "What will it do that I will not?"

_It will stay_, Doom thinks._ It will stay, and one day you will leave..._ He pushes the thought away. He has not survived for so long by giving in to mere, human need.

"Will your creation do this?" With that peculiar grace of his, Loki makes himself naked He stands between Doom's legs pale and perfect, with his manhood erect and barely leaking at the end. He takes Doom's hands, now bare of his gauntlets, and runs them over the skin of his own chest. "Will it feel like that?"

"It will do what I tell it to." That is a lie, and Doom knows it. No Loki, in any universe, has ever done what anyone told him to.

Sure enough, Loki's rich chuckle: "Then it will not be Loki."

"What has you so pleased tonight, Trickster?" Doom will take Loki, but on his own terms. His hands move to his hips, to the last latches that hold the armor in place.

"What?" Loki's eyes glow, as the armor falls away, and Doom is naked in front of him.

"Come," Doom makes his voice ironic, as he gives Loki back his own words. "You may tell me."

"I don't want to." Loki's fingers make contact. They stroke Doom's chest, his stomach ...his manhood, weak, and vulnerable, and very, very demanding. He breathes a pleasured sigh. "What would you say, Victor, if you knew I had cheated death?"

"What is death to an Asgardian?"

"My own sweet daughter, Hela." Loki is in Doom's lap now. His flesh touches Doom's flesh, his warmth against Doom's skin, still cold from the armor. "We of Asgard keep things in the family." His face is against Doom's face. Their cheeks touch, then their lips touch, then their tongues... "What would you say if I told you that I found a gift to give, that would ensure my freedom for all eternity?"

Never, ever underestimate an Asgardian. This is the wisest principle, Doom has found, for it ensures that he can profit, and still remain safe. But this that Loki speaks, is madness. "No one is free for all eternity."

Loki kisses him with mad lips, and stares into Doom's brown eyes with his own sparkling green ones. "Loki is. Come," he says, "kiss me, my poor little mortal Victor."

Doom will kiss him, but at his own time, and on his own terms. "I will not be mortal for long, Loki. Soon enough, the secrets of Asgard will be mine."

"You will still be mortal compared to me. Fate will still hold you, Victor, while Laufeyson is free." Loki takes Doom's hand. He pulls him from his seat. "Come upstairs and be free with me, Victor, as free as you can be, at least."

Doom goes, and willingly. "No one is free." His words trail behind them, and are buried under Loki's mocking laughter.


	8. Snake

_**LONG AGO**_

"Once upon a time, there was a princess with blue eyes, and hair of beautiful, glittering gold."

"Golden hair?" Indulgent, Victor. He reclines full-length, too sated still, from Laufeyson's lovemaking, to resume the armor that normally hides his vanity. He pours himself morewine, from the bottle by the bedside. "Was this princess called Thor-ina, by any chance?"

Loki puts his arm _around_ him to reach the wine. It amuses him, to find excuses to touch this most distant of mortals. "She was called Balder-ella," he says. "She lived in a golden castle, in a golden city, inhabited only by golden people, on the top of a remote mountain in a faraway land called Latveria."

Victor raises his glass toward the light. He admires the wine, as if he could taste the bouquet by mere admiration of it. "Your story is taking a turn for the realistic."

Loki curls closer. He rests his head, choosing a position of maximum inconvenience. Victor makes no complaint. His arm snakes around Loki's waist. His other hand smooths rhythmically across his sleek, dark head.

Loki chuckles. "Would you make a pet of me, Victor?"

"I tremble," Victor says, "for any man who would so underestimate you." He does not stop the stroking though, which feels rather good. "Continue your story."

"As you wish. The princess," Loki says, "or Balder-ella, if you will, went walking, one fine morning in December. As she walked, she came upon a small snake, lying half-frozen by the pond."

"A snake?" Victor seems half-asleep, with the stroking, and the wine that came before it, and the very good lovemaking they shared, which came before that.

"A little snake, gold-and-black in color, its green eyes half-closed, with the pain of lying there exposed to the cold. 'Take me in,' it begged Princess Balder-ella, 'oh pray, and you have a heart in you, take me into your warm home.'"

"The woman, she obliged?"

Loki nods. "Of course."

"Snakes can be very persuasive." Victor ceases his stroking, just long enough to drink some more wine. "And what followed?"

"What usually follows in such stories? The foolish princess paid the price for her stupidity. She took the snake home, warmed him, not just at her fireside, but in her very bosom. It bit her of course, for that is what serpents do, and she died, gasping out her last in sadness and horror at its duplicity."

"You knew I was a snake when you took me in..." Victor drinks again, Loki's head feeling cold, where his hand should be touching it. "I have heard this story before," he says. "This, or one like enough to it to be its brother. Such stories are common in all cultures, I think."

"Common, yes." Loki takes his hand and puts it back where it belongs. "But no less true for that."

"No less true, certainly." Victor opens his arms. "Come to me, my little snake."

Loki comes to him. He cuddles close to this mortal, who would never be fool enough to be taken in by a serpent. Outside the wind blows. Rain lashes the windows, while further away, another, larger storm gathers. It is enough for now. Loki is warm, and he has taken what precautions he can, against the future.

_**LATER**_

Once upon a time, there was a man who thought he could walk away from his troubles, and he was close to right. With care and a little planning he managed to _fly_ away. His body, he left behind to wander the earth, unscathed and very, very, tiresomely innocent.

The mortal who called himself Doom was not the only one to seek it out. Thor, who pretended brotherhood with Laufeyson, did the same. The body welcomed his attention. It sought it out, puppylike in its pathetic eagerness. How Ikol despised it then!

And it had been up to him, he'd have returned to one who's defenses were fortressed like his own, to one who gave no quarter and, in turn, asked none for himself. ...To Doom, in short. He could have nested comfortably, in the rafters of his cold stone castle, and flown out from the arched mullions of his windows in search of prey, just as he'd done as a human.

His body needs him though. It will discover, eventually, what he already knows: There is no good fate, in any world, for Loki. He wants to be there when it finds out, to teach it to meet disappointment with vengeance.

The streets of Paris. The halls of Asgard. Embraced by Thor, or stared at by his friends (the lean, lecherous one, the fat one with his stupid brain and fat, gluttonous belly, and the other, the one who thinks only of violence), they move from place to place and roost – _He_ roosts; the body sits, sleeps, moves its stupid, heavy-footed legs. – wherever they are taken.

"Once upon a time..." – He is roosting outside the window. Inside, Thor tucks his brother, newly-small, into bed. – "Once there was a princess..."

Indulgent Thunderer: "A princess? Tell me more, Loki."

"She had golden hair, and she lived in a golden castle." – His body, Ikol notes, does not tell the story as well as he did. – "She went out walking one day, and she found a serpent."

"Oh really, brother?" Fond hands pull the blankets up higher. A gentle touch, on a tousled dark head. "And what did she do then?"

"She took it in, and she cared for it." Traitorous body, to cuddle so, against those big hands! "And it lived with her until one day... When..."

"When what, my brother?"

"When..." Dark hair, and the solemn face ...And those trusting, green eyes... "And then..." Stupid body, it cannot forsake its fool's paradise. "...And then she lived happily ever after, and the serpent lived with her."

Stupid body. Ikol takes wing and flies. Gullible body, to think it can escape fate so easily. Let it learn; let it find out for itself, for he will not be there. He takes wing and he flies, over plains and mountains, past oceans, and deserts the size of oceans. He flies over high mountains, and through thick forests, and he lands, finally, outside a familiar mullioned window.

Victor never cared if he were male or female. He will not mind that he is a bird now, he thinks.


End file.
